Stalked By A Serial Killer

Chapter Eight: BOOM! There Goes Morgan Peters' Freedom

Chapter Eight: "BOOM! There goes Morgan Peters' Freedom."

"ARE–IS–DID I–" I stammer in disbelief. "Were they talking about me?" I gasp.

"Do you know a Morgan with medium blonde hair, blue eyes, a white–now blood red–tank top with a black and blue plaid top over it, and a pair of chucks?" Tyler answers. I don't answer back. I just stare. "No? Me either." He adds harshly. Here we go again.

"Why are you being so–" I start to say, but the sight of Tyler's eyes snapping to me and looking through my soul, makes me stop.

Okay, if he wants to play dirty, we'll play dirty. I'll put on my bitch girl pants and we'll see who's apologizing at the end of the night. Definitely not me, that's for sure. "Y'know what, just to make you happy, we'll go home, 'kay?" I say coldly, rolling my eyes and turning away from him.

He wants to play that game? Fine. But he's going to regret it. And he knows it. I just don't understand why he likes to continue this when he knows exactly how I am. I'm all down for fights, but this is just childish. If he wants to argue, then I'll be the biggest drama queen in history.

I attempt to get up to leave, but then I remember something: I'm still numb. And I'm hooked up to some weird techno stuff. I might kill myself if I remove these wires!

"If you wouldn't mind helping me up." I say dryly. I see Tyler roll his eyes, then stands from the chair and starts taking me off the wires. He then walks over to my better side. I'd say good side but I had something in my left so neither is good.

He picks me up bridal style again, being careful with my bad arm–my dominate one. I think that's his signature move of carrying. I usually smile at the way he picks me up, but now–I don't even show a little curve of my lips. I try not to, anyway. This man wants to be an ass? I'll make him be my bitch until I'm back on my feet.

Throughout the walk, my arm sling adjuster kept digging into my shoulder blade, and Tyler accidentally hitting it going through doorways doesn't make me any calmer. It was really irritating, but luckily whatever it was, was still in my system otherwise he'd be getting punched harder than Cameron Diaz punching her cheating ex-boyfriend in the movie The Holiday.

The plan to just walk out doesn't turn out as well as I hoped. Tyler placed me down beside him and making me lean against the counter before he started telling the lady what the plan was. Usually I just 'up and out', but we ain't in Louisiana anymore. The desk said that she highly recommends me not flying until I healed. Depending on the surgery, I already knew that you aren't supposed to fly until at least 24 hours after your surgery. However, technically I didn't have a surgery done, so I should be cleared to leave. Or. . . at least one I knew about.

Of course Tyler didn't take it well, and said whether it was highly recommended or not–that we were leaving no matter what came in the way, because I 'got hurt' too much. My protests against Tyler didn't work well either, so now I have to accept the fact that I'm going home and probably never coming back to Rio de Janeiro ever again. I'm okay with that, but it's a nice country and I wouldn't mind vacationing here, even given the circumstances. Tyler on the other hand. . . would kill me himself if I told him this.

Stupid overprotective best friends.

Y'know, you can eliminate him if you want, if you don't like his over protectiveness.

"Just give her pain and sleeping medicine and we'll be fine!" Tyler hisses at the receptionist. "We're not staying here, I'm not risking her getting anymore unlucky visits from guys in masks."

"Sir, she just came out of a rough surgery," The lady says politely. By now, my dear annoying best friend is infuriated and snappy. And I'm here rolling my eyes while half of me is numb and trying to not fall on the floor.